You're a Fool
by streco
Summary: From the Workshop of RENT. Mark tries to get Roger out of the house and they end up singing at each other angrily [as always]. MarkRoger friendship. No romance, sorry.ONESHOTTT. Rated because... I'm too lazy to check what it's really rated. XD


1_**You're A Fool**_

**A/N**: I got a great response from "Get Over It," so I decided to go ahead and do "You're a Fool," basically because it's one of my favorite songs in the whole Workshop :)

Once again, I have never seen this Workshop version, all of these actions are my ideas of what might happen. I don't own this song, either, J. Larry does :) (Jonathan Larson)

Oh, and another thing. For visual / vocal purposes, imagine the OBC / Movie Cast, just 'cause they're so much better than these people (except Anthony, 'cause he's the same, dur).

— —

"You're off?"

I finished wrapping my scarf around my neck and turned to look at Roger, who was sitting numbly on the couch. He hadn't moved all morning except to get a cup of coffee, which he hadn't even finished. The midday sun had already set in the sky and I was about to go out, you know, just to at least see the world.

Coming out of my reverie, I nodded violently. "You wanna wait here for Benny?" I asked him, kind of confused as to why he would want to do that. As far as I was concerned, he couldn't evict us if we weren't there.

"Is there anything else to do?" he questioned, his voice sad. As always.

"Anything _but _Maureen's show," I muttered.

"You want to go, yes?" Damn. He knows me too well, doesn't he? I nodded, defeated. Anything just to see her smiling face... even if it wasn't smiling. I loved her no matter what, even though she converted to freakin' women over me.

So I shrugged in response. "I guess." What else was I going to do all night? There was a party afterward, and maybe I could drink my problems away. _No, Mark, now you're starting to sound like Roger. 'I'll shoot up and then the problems will go away.' _Well, who knows, maybe it really works.

"For someone cool," he told me, standing up and putting his cold coffee cup in the sink and—to my surprise—washing it. He stood there, back to me, putting the soap on the sponge and rubbing it in the cup. "You're a fool," he finished.

"I know," I sighed. I really was. I thought I was all hip, you know, fly, but I really wasn't.

"But her show's not till one?" he said it as if it were sort of a question, and I nodded. We stood for a moment, and then I thought of something. Roger liked fun stuff, right?

"We'll do something else," I tried to sound chipper. I started walking across the room towards the couch and picked up my camera from the side table. "It's Christmas!" As if he didn't know that. But it was supposed to be an exciting holiday, do something fun, give a gift, and all he wanted to do was sit around and rot away.

Of course, I didn't know what he was going through. Or Collins. I probably wouldn't be strong enough to pull through that, the whole AIDS thing. But Roger, usually so full of life, so excited, so... so into banging girls. Why wasn't he like that anymore? It was like he was useless, when he _so _wasn't.

"Oh, fun," he mocked happiness, suddenly making this disagreement into an argument. "Some of us don't have time for that," haha, funny joke, Rog. You don't have time for _what? _You have time for everything... or was he talking more figuratively? Like he didn't have time left.

"Awww." Sarcasm. _Now _it was an official argument, and neither of us would let up.

"Some of us get writer's block!"

"What a _crock_."

"Some of our parents don't pay our bills," he shot at me, and I felt that one sting a bit. It's not like I _ask _my mom to send me my half of the rent, and besides, I'm basically the one paying Roger's anyway! I go out and beg, try to sell my films, while every few _months _he'll go out and play one lousy gig that doesn't pay _squat._

"Mr. Negative, 'cause he's HIV-positive!" I picked up my camera and filmed his hurt expression, trying to stop the burning, fiery guilt that shot up my throat. _Don't go there, Mark, you can't go there. You're not allowed to go there. Seriously. That's bad._

"You can't know," he accused me, finishing washing the cup and then spinning around to face me. That was true, I couldn't know. Not to the first degree of knowing whatsoever. "Give me some latitude," he pleaded.

"Maybe you're blocked because of that attitude," I grabbed some Cap'n Crunch and started eating it dry. It was true. If he was just optimistic, happy, and he opened up to me, maybe I _could _give him some latitude, but not when he was like that. Maybe his pain would go away if he could open up to me and tell me what it was like, maybe _I'd _feel some of that pain.

"I doubt you'd be so brave!" he cried, stalking toward me angrily. "Hell, you're scared to see your ex!"

"I'm a chicken shit," I admitted, stuffing some more cereal in my mouth, trying to seem _trés casual _despite the fact that this six foot tall rocker ex-junkie slash my best friend was irate and looked as if he wanted to strangle me. "A hypocrite," I added, to make him a little less angry. "I admit."

"I rest my case," he threw his hands in the air and collapsed on the couch again, leaving me next to the counter, leaning against it. "For someone cool," he repeated, feeling the need to burn me once again, "you're a fool."

"Let's make a deal," I offered, walking in front of the couch, the opposite side of the coffee table.

He groaned very loudly and slapped himself on the forehead. "No deals." I cringed, I must've sounded like his old dealer for a second there. Quickly I recovered.

"I'll see Maureen," he brightened at the thought of seeing me squirm uncomfortably, "if you come out tonight."

This made him angry again, like I was purposely trying to get to him. Well, maybe I was. "I don't fit in anymore, all right?" he growled, picking up his guitar. "Anyway, I'm working." He plucked out a few chords that reminded me solely of "Musetta's Waltz," but it wasn't like I was gonna tell him he hadn't written it. I was sure he knew. "It's scratchy," he defended.

"It recalls something," I stroked my chin as if I had a goatee, "but it's catchy," I pointed my finger at him like it was a gun.

He saw that I was just trying to make him feel better and heaved a heavy sigh. "The inspired zone of my brain has atrophied," he told me, putting his head in his hands, obviously fed up. "But I need to leave a mark before I croak—"

_OW! _My hand went directly to my heart. It felt Roger'd just sharpened a spike and stabbed me directly through the heart, leaving a huge gaping whole. "Not funny," I managed, almost choking on my own words. That'd been the first time Roger had ever admitted to his death sentence, and it hurt me to hear him give up.

"No joke!" he shouted, jumping up and grabbing at his hair. "I wish that I could turn the days I wasted toying with dope fiends and groupies into days spent obsessing over details," he sounded defeated, and then he added, "the way that you do." I didn't know if it was a compliment or an insult, but judging by his tone, it was both.

"If you only knew," I laughed heartlessly. "I spend some much time obsessing, it's depressing." I really have nothing else to do with my life except obsess. "For someone cool, you're the fool," it was my turn to accuse. "You want to rediscover the spark, leave a mark, share something with someone. Face your fears—"

"What's that I hear?" he cut me off. "Maureen did you say...?"

Ouch. That burns. "Touché," I acknowledged, a little hurt.

Then, suddenly, we were head to head, both ignited and angry, the two of us speaking at the same time. "For someone cool, you're a—"

A knock.

The two of us groaned frustratedly. "Shit."

**A/N**: Maybe I won't do Roger's. I don't think I'm gonna.

This eventually goes into "Today 4 U / Do a Little Business" but I didn't want to go that far.

I think I'm going to do "He Says / Right Brain" next... or just He Says. :)

Review?

–Steph.


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